


from the lands unknown

by morphosyntactic



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24359737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morphosyntactic/pseuds/morphosyntactic
Summary: “Just wondering,” Tim says slowly, softly, “if I’d ever be able to tell if you weren’tyouin there anymore.” He presses his thumb into Martin’s hip like a punctuation mark:who are you, under your skin?“You’d know,” Martin says. But that’s meaningless, isn’t it?
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	from the lands unknown

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Episode 104 - Sneak Preview. Begins directly after Tim's statement.

The silence somehow seems heavier now the tape recorder is switched off. 

Tim’s breathing is louder, rougher than usual, but it feels as though the boxes in the storeroom are absorbing it. Like the files are stealing the air from around them.

“Tim,” Martin begins, then pauses. Tim’s eyes look distant and hollow, his jaw clenched; the scars are more prominent than ever across the sharp lines of his cheekbone. “You must be,” Martin stammers, hesitant and uncertain. “I really am sor—”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

“But I am though,” Martin says, “I’m so sorry, Tim, that must have been…”

Tim huffs out something just close enough to a laugh that it makes Martin’s teeth hurt. “Must have been what, awful? Terrible? Yeah, Martin. Yes, it was. Of course it was. But it wasn’t your fault, was it? _Was_ it?”

Tim is staring, glaring but not really _looking_ at Martin in any way that suggests he’s really seeing him — but Martin can’t stop looking back anyway. Tim is striking, but the expression on his face is ugly. 

“No. So don’t be _sorry_ ,” Tim spits out, like the word is bitter on his tongue. “What good is that going to do anyone?” The fury is radiating off of him as he steps forward. For a moment Martin thinks Tim might be about to hit him, although Tim has been far angrier than this with Jon, with Elias, and it hasn’t come to blows (yet, thinks Martin; yet). But Tim stops. Opens his mouth, shuts it again, looks away and then back at Martin, and now his eyes are blazing. “God, Martin, what are you even doing here?”

“I was — I just wanted to ask you about the book…”

“Fuck, Martin, I don’t mean _here_ , I mean…” Martin gestures around them with short, sharp jabs of his finger. “I mean here! This place! Living in this place, sleeping here like some kind of hermit, recording Jon’s statements, bloody — mooning after him—”

“I do _not_.” Martin hates that that’s the part of Martin’s rant that spurs him into action; he hates even more that there’s a hint of uncertainty in his voice as he refutes it. 

Tim laughs again, still just another distant echo of anything expressing amusement. “Sure you don’t. You’re not at all obvious.”

“That’s not — what, are you telling me you even care? What would it matter to you _anyway_?”

“That’s not…”

“And what are _you_ doing here if you’re so much better than this?” Martin demands, and regrets the outburst immediately. Christ, he knows why Tim is here, doesn’t he, now — Tim just told him, just laid his heart down on tape all because Martin is the one blindly recording statements these days. “Sorry,” he says quickly, and takes a step back, suddenly aware of how close together they’re standing. His back bumps against a shelf. “Sorry.”

 _“Don’t_.” Tim barks the word out, the crack of a warning shot, and he runs a hand through his hair in an angry swipe as he takes another step forward. And then another, like there’s an invisible string connecting them, something unseen that Martin somehow isn’t as afraid of as he should be. 

“Tim…” Martin’s voice sounds distant; his heartbeat is pounding in his ears. He doesn’t know where to look, steeling himself to meet Martin’s eyes for as long as he can before he has to drop his gaze. Lingering, just for a moment, on his scars, the stubborn set of his jaw, his mouth.

Martin swallows. Looks back up again.

“Don’t,” Tim says again, low and dangerous, “god, Martin, you just...”

Martin asks, hoarse, “What?”

“You just shouldn’t be here.”

“I shouldn’t be here?” Martin repeats. He can hear his voice climbing, anger flaring — because it’s too much, there’s so much Tim doesn’t even _know,_ and something in Martin is starting to spiral out of control. “I’ve got every _right_ to be here — as much as you, as much as Jon, as much as _anyone_ , do you think I’d be sticking around if I, I don’t know, if I scared as easy as everyone seems to think I do? I’m helping, I’m—”

“Shut up,” Tim snarls.

“I don’t have to,” Martin hisses. He’s tired — he’s so tired of this. “Why does everyone think they can just tell me… You can’t _make_ me.” 

But it’s just another way he’s been wrongfooted by the Institute, because Tim can, _is_ , and for one short, sharp second everything slots back into place before it shatters with the hard clash of Tim’s mouth against his.

It hurts. It’s wrong. And Martin grabs at Tim, fingers curling into the front of Tim’s jumper and digging into his upper arm, and he kisses him back, because what else is there to do?

Christ, Martin thinks as Tim makes a rough noise and crowds in closer, backing Martin up against the shelves. Is this happening? Here? Are they — are they going to— he’s looked at Tim before, but he never really thought — but then as fast as he moved in Tim pulls away, steps back, his lips red even in the dull light of the storage room. 

“Just shut up,” Tim repeats, but softer, somehow. “Go home, Martin,” he says, and turns to walk out of the door. 

Martin laughs out loud at Tim’s retreating back. Hollow, disbelieving — something desperate.

###

The Archives make it easy to avoid people. The place isn’t huge, but there’s something about the layout that doesn’t quite make sense, and it’s easy to go days without really seeing people if you want to. 

(Martin knows; after all, Jon has it down to an art form.)

He thought Tim would avoid him after their — after whatever that was. He had it in his mind to avoid Tim, too, and told himself it would be easy, but somehow Martin keeps _seeing_ him, though only in snatches: Tim’s back as the lift doors close behind him, Tim’s bag and coat in the library but Tim himself nowhere to be seen. 

Perhaps it’s by design. Or it’s some strange twist of fate, but either way, Martin gets used to it, accepts it, and finds himself blindsided when he almost runs right into Tim in the kitchen just over a week later. 

“Oh!” Martin says. “Hello — hi.”

“Hello, hi to you too,” Tim says. There’s some of his usual dry humour in there, enough that a sliver of tension eases out of the tight line of Martin’s shoulders, but Tim’s not meeting Martin’s eyes.

A long silence stretches out between them.

“How are you?” Martin tries. 

“Fine,” Tim says, a short, sharp sound followed by a second, lingering silence. It sits heavy on Martin’s shoulders. It worms its way between them like a physical presence. 

“A cup of tea!” Martin blurts out. “Er. I mean — I’m about to make a cup of tea, do you want one?”

“No, Martin.”

“Okay. Well, er.”

“Thank you, though.”

“You’re… welcome?” Martin hates that it comes out as a question, so he busies himself in a flurry of familiar movement, back to Tim as he reaches for the kettle, opening and shutting cupboards until he can find his favourite mug. It’s here somewhere, tucked away at the back where he knows few people can reach it.

“And Martin?”

Martin pauses, mug in hand. He doesn’t turn around. 

“I’m sorry.”

By the time he does look around, Tim has gone again. 

###

That night, Martin dreams.

He’s in the Institute but he’s not — some kind of funhouse mirror version of the place he works, where none of the doors open to the right rooms and the wallpaper from his mother’s living room lines the corridors. 

He hears Jon’s voice somewhere in the background: _Statement begins_ , but no follow up. He tries to follow the voice, but he’s going around in circles, never seeming to get any closer. He calls out, but his voice only echoes. 

“Jon?” he tries. “Tim?”

He hears a sound and opens the kitchen door to find himself in the tunnels, where a shadowy figure darts ahead of him, too quick for him to make out any details. He follows the shape anyway — what else is he going to do?

“Stop!” he cries out as he starts to get out of breath. He’s not expecting anything to happen, but to his surprise the figure does stop, and as he gets closer the shadows start to draw back. 

“Martin,” Tim says. “What are you doing here?”

“I—”Martin begins, but Tim is walking towards him now, moving smoothly over the uneven ground of the tunnels, and when his hand cups Martin’s cheek it’s warm, his palm dry. “What?”

“Sorry,” Tim says, and Martin wants to shout, the impulse taking him by surprise — _don’t be!_ —but he can’t open his mouth. “I’m sorry, Martin.”

And then he’s gone, and Martin is alone.

And somewhere, in the distance: _Statement ends._

_###_

_Sorry_ , Martin wakes up thinking, Tim’s voice an echo in his head and his heart pounding. _Don’t be sorry._

It takes him a long time to fall back asleep.

###

Martin is exhausted. He’s contemplating the terrible instant coffee in the work kitchen, weighing up the pros and cons of going back out in the rain for a quick trip to the Costa down the street. Neither option is appealing. 

He puts the coffee back down and reaches for the teabags instead. He’s waiting for the kettle to boil when Tim comes in. 

Tim is somehow the only person Martin ever sees these days. He looks how Martin feels: his hair dishevelled, dark circles under his eyes, and rough dusting of stubble over his jaw that might look like a deliberate style choice if Martin didn’t know better.

“Morning,” Martin says automatically.

“Morning.”

It’s fine, Martin thinks. Normal. He stares at the steam starting to rise from the spout of the kettle and thinks, deliberately: _normal_. 

And it almost is. Tim shrugs at Martin’s nose wrinkle of disgust when he picks up the instant coffee and says, “I don’t think this stuff is that bad.”

“It’s terrible, Tim.”

“It’s necessary,” Tim says. “So tired, I’m not… you know. I’m just tired.”

“Yeah,” Martin mutters, busying himself with milk to keep his sudden spike of irritation out of his voice. Does Tim think he’s the only one not sleeping? The only one this place is doing — _something_ to?

“Alright.” Tim grabs his mug, the strong smell of coffee in the air. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah,” Martin says to his retreating back. Except — no. 

Maybe it’s because he’s tired. He’s tired and he’s tired of _worrying_ , and there’s so much that’s out of his control, people he wants to talk to but barely even sees these days — and Tim is right there walking away from him, and there’s still something between them, tender like a bruise that’s waiting to be pressed. 

“Tim,” Martin calls, and follows him. Tim looks surprised, and then shocked and a little angry and something that Martin would almost say is pleased, when Martin hisses, “You don’t get to be sorry either, you know.”

Tim doesn’t play dumb. Martin is glad; he’s not sure how he would have handled that. Instead, Tim sighs. “What do you want me to say, Martin?”

“I don’t — I don’t know, you just.” Martin lowers his voice, eyes darting from side to side, even though he knows there’s no one else around. “You kissed me, and then…”

“Yeah. Don’t worry, Martin, I won’t tell Jon...”

Martin stops and turns around. Starts walking away, because he _can’t_ , but then Tim stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Martin hadn’t even heard him move.

“Or what is it, Martin? Did you want me to do it again?”

When Martin says nothing, Tim smirks, and steps closer again. And again, Martin’s focus narrowing unil Tim is all he can see. 

When Martin gets back to the kitchen, his tea is stone cold. 

###

And suddenly, he’s seeing Tim everywhere. Whether it’s deliberate or not, Martin still can’t tell, but Tim is there: catching his eye as they pass in the corridors, nodding in recognition in the library. Pressing Martin up against the dusty shelves of an old storage room and kissing him, looming over him like Martin isn’t taller or bigger than him, his presence as overwhelming as the hand tangled in Martin’s hair, as the hot, hard press of his mouth. 

The way Tim kisses him makes Martin feel like he’s melting. Everything swoops down low in the pit of his stomach, the base of his spine; all the heat and want in his body burning at each individual point Tim’s fingers are pressed against his bare skin, his shirt untucked and wrinkled. 

“Tim,” Martin murmurs, helpless, and Tim grins at him. All teeth. 

“Yeah?”

Martin doesn’t have anything else to add. He just wanted to say something, some acknowledgement — a reminder for him and for Tim, for both of them. Instead of adding anything else, he tugs Tim back in.

Martin has no idea how long they’ve been kissing for when he hears something. Long enough that his mouth feels tender, hot and wet, and the only thing stopping him desperately rubbing up against Tim is the deeply ingrained knowledge that this is his workplace. It takes a few moments for the sound to sink in through the haze of lust, but when it does—

He _knows_ that sound. That slightly tuneless, absent-minded humming can only mean one person, and Martin jumps back. There’s nowhere to go with the wall against his back, but it’s enough for Tim to step back. Martin immediately misses the solid warmth of him, but he bites his lip to keep himself from making any noise. 

The thought of Jon stumbling onto them like this is too mortifying.

The look Tim gives him is almost enough to make him feel worse.

###

“What is this, Martin, have you stepped it up and started stalking him now?”

Martin jumps, an over the top reaction more fitting of a cartoon character than someone with every right — or at least, with good reason — to be looking through his boss’ desk. “I was just,” he begins defensively, and then stops to narrow his eyes at Tim. “What’s it to you anyway?”

Tim shrugs in a nonchalant way that makes Martin want to clench his fists. It’s casual enough that to a passerby, it could have been a joke. 

“I’m just…” Martin trails off. “Looking.”

“In case he’s left his murder plans on his desk? Maybe there’s a tape. A nice little pre-recorded soliloquy.”

“Tim, _don’t_.”

Tim steps into Jon’s office. He closes the door behind him.

The guilt thrumming in Martin’s veins at snooping in his boss’ office shifts slowly, steadily, into something else.

“You look stressed, Martin,” Tim says. “Need a break?”

What Martin needs is something here to prove that Jon isn’t a liar, isn’t a criminal or some kind of _murderer_. He needs life to start going back to normal — as much as that’s possible in a place like this, with a job like he has. 

He needs Tim backing him up against Jon’s messy desk, shoving the papers aside so Martin can rest his weight on it as Tim presses in close to him, hips fitting tight against Martin’s as he kisses him hard, like he’s making a point: _I’m here. He isn’t_. 

“Tim—”

“What?” Tim asks, dragging his mouth along Martin’s jawline, burying the word with a growl in Martin’s neck. “C’mon, tell me what you want.”

“Just — kiss me, please,” Martin gasps, his face burning. Tim stiffens against him for a moment as though surprised, and Martin wants to take it back, embarrassed by how needy he sounds, but then Tim groans and tangles a rough hand in Martin’s hair to bring their mouths together but kisses him surprisingly softly, thorough and filthy as he presses Martin harder against the desk.

###

“What are you thinking about?” Martin asks. He regrets it immediately; it sounds like something out of a romcom, something some infatuated, doe-eyed naive dreamer would say, someone Martin _isn’t_ anymore, and he presses his face into Tim’s shoulder to hide his blush. He blames the situation: both of them still breathless and sweaty, Tim’s finger tracing slowly down his chest, running over each bump of his ribs.

It’s— 

“Just wondering,” Tim says slowly, softly, “if I’d ever be able to tell if you weren’t _you_ in there anymore.” He presses his thumb into Martin’s hip like a punctuation mark: _who are you, under your skin?_

“You’d know,” Martin says. But that’s meaningless, isn’t it? How would _any_ of them know? 

“Perhaps you’re going to turn around and destroy me some day,” Tim says with a half smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Perhaps, Martin thinks, Tim will do the same to him.

###

The Archives are cold. There’s something insidious about the chill that worms its way under Martin’s skin: working, recording, writing, sleeping — he doesn’t get an escape. 

“Here,” Tim says shortly one day. There are statements piled up on Martin’s desk, a tape recorder on top of his notebook, and when glances up he sees Martin’s eyes linger on both. But he doesn’t say anything. He just hands Martin a cup of tea, steam rising up from the rim of the mug. 

“Thanks,” Martin says. His voice is hoarse. He wraps both hands around the mug and holds it close, lets the steam warm him, the heat work its way through his palms. 

He wonders if there are patterns in the steam. Spirals, fractals. He smiles at Tim instead of looking more closely, and after a moment, Tim shoots him a tight, tense smile back.

###

“What are you doing here, Martin?” Tim asks.

“I don’t…”

“It’s not the work. It’s not even Jon, really, is it? Not really. And you were in deep before any of us were really stuck here.”

Martin remembers the first time Tim asked him that, spitting the words across a storage room like weapons: _God, Martin_. 

“I don’t know,” Martin admits, because he doesn’t. But there is, underneath everything, one thing that he does know: “It’s just where I need to be.”

It’s written somewhere. Recorded deep in the fabric of this place — something he’ll watch and wait for. 


End file.
